A Murder in Thebes (Alexander the Great 2) (10 page)

“Yes,” Miriam replied.

“Then hand the remains to them.” Alexander went back into the trees, squatted on the fallen log, and put his face in his hands.

“Our killer has been busy,” he murmured. “And it’s my fault. I should have put guards in these trees. I issued a decree. All
temples and their sacred groves were to be protected. I just didn’t want any of my men to give offence to the priestesses.”

“The killer had a free hand,” Miriam declared. “He could wander the grove, plot mayhem, and carry it out under the cloak of
darkness. True, more soldiers may have prevented it, but, there again, I suspect the assassin would have only changed his
plans.”

“In what way?” Alexander said crossly.

“He always intended to seize Oedipus’s Crown,” Miriam replied coolly. “By fair means or foul, probably the latter. He was
determined to wreak havoc and destruction. However, let’s not concentrate on what might have been and what should be. By the
way, your mother’s right, my lord, being cross doesn’t suit you.”

Alexander chuckled. “I haven’t eaten and I can still taste yesterday’s wine.”

“What is more important,” Miriam persisted, “is possibly the mistake our Oedipus made in burning that corpse. Why not just
leave it out in the grove for all to see? I believe that the poor old woman was tortured for the password and for the instructions
as to how the Crown was to be removed.”

“But she was a stubborn old thing.”

“Stubborn is as stubborn does,” Miriam replied. “But can you imagine being enticed into a grove by some horror from Hades
who then binds you and begins some subtle torture.”

“Someone would have heard her scream,” Alexander objected.

“Not if she was gagged. Eventually she would have broken. Whatever, Oedipus or the Oracle did pot want us to see the signs
of his destruction. Indeed, I wager her murder will be placed at your door.”

Alexander cursed and got to his feet.

“Her death will have to remain a secret,” he declared. “I’ll send orders to guard the priestesses’ house. They’ll not be allowed
out to spread rumors.”

“Let me go there first,” Miriam requested. “I haven’t washed or changed, but those unfortunates had better be informed of
what has happened.” She stared up at the entwined branches; the sky looked threatening with lowering gray clouds. We should
be gone from here, she thought. Oedipus, horrors of the night, a devastated city, and a shrine that seems set to sour Alexander’s
great victory. She glanced at her brother.

“Simeon, what will you do?”

“He’ll come back with me,” Alexander offered.

Miriam watched them go, listening to the crackle of bracken; then the grove fell silent. She stayed still and listened. No
sound of birdsong. Was this place cursed? She had talked so rationally, dismissing all fanciful notions! She swallowed hard.
This was a sacred place, to Thebans as well as to all of Greece. A great sacrilege had occurred. And what if Oedipus, that
shadow of the night, still lurked among the trees? Miriam grasped her walking cane and hurriedly left the clearing. The Cretan
archers were assembled, their captain calling out orders. Miriam approached him and made her request. The fellow nodded.

“Two of my lads will go with you.”

“They must not enter the house,” Miriam declared. “The priestesses will be frightened enough.”

The archers went before her, one of them claiming he knew in which direction the house lay. Miriam had visited the place the
day before but she was still glad of the archers’ company. Images teemed in her mind: blood-splattered corpses in the shrine,
the blackened, burnt remains of the old priestess. A killer was prowling Thebes, and he had already attacked her, trapping
her in Memnon’s chamber. It would only be a matter of time before he struck again. When they reached the priestesses’ house,
Miriam told the archers to be vigilant and walked into the courtyard. The door was off its latch. She pushed it open and walked
into the sweet-smelling atrium. A young priestess appeared from out of the kitchen. She was dressed in a white linen shift,
her feet bare. She wore no wig, and her face looked white and anxious.

“Where’s Mother?” she demanded.

The other priestesses sat in the kitchen, clustered around the table. From the smell, Miriam realized that they had been cooking.

“We were to have a feast today.”

“You are Antigone, aren’t you?”

The young priestess nodded.

“We were to have a feast today.” She continued as if Miriam hadn’t interrupted. “Jocasta said we should celebrate our deliverance.”

“Deliverance from what?” Miriam asked.

The young woman waved her forward.

“Your master Alexander, he has been most kind to us. He has kept his word. The shrine and this house have not been troubled.”

“But you are Thebans, and your city is destroyed.”

“Jocasta thought differently,” Antigone murmured.
“When Pelliades killed Lysander and put his corpse upon a cross, Jocasta cursed him. If Alexander had been beaten off by Thebes,
who knows what might have happened to us?”

“Why?” Miriam asked.

“Pelliades, leader of the council, was very angry with Jocasta. He accused her of being pro-Macedonian. In the city, so great
was the hatred of Alexander that such an accusation carried the death sentence.”

“But you are priestesses?”

“Pelliades wouldn’t have cared. He was ruthless.”

Miriam nodded. She wondered if Hecaetus had any luck among the Theban prisoners. What a pity they couldn’t have laid hands
on Pelliades. What a song he would sing, what information he could give. A man who had lost everything might reveal the name
of this spy. She looked at the other priestesses and recalled the reason for her visit.

“I’d best come in,” she murmured. “I have something to tell you.”

“You should really wait until Mother returns.”

Miriam took her gently by the elbow and led her into the stone-paved kitchen. She stood at the end of the table.

“What time did Jocasta leave?” she asked.

“It must have been very late last night,” Merope, a middle-aged priestess replied.

“Why?”

“She is high priestess,” Antigone declared. “She may have visited the shrine, sat and prayed there; sometimes she did that.”

“She didn’t visit the shrine,” Miriam declared. “Your shrine has been violated. The Crown has been stolen. And, I am afraid,
Jocasta has been killed.”

The priestesses looked at her in stunned silence. Antigone’s hand went to her mouth. She sat like a frightened child.
Merope was the first to recover. She sprang to her feet, kicking the stool aside, her face contorted with rage.

“You did that! You and your bloody-handed masters. You’ve murdered Jocasta and stolen the Crown. You’ve committed blasphemy
and sacrilege. All of Greece will know!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Jocasta was our friend, our mother. Consecrated to Apollo.”
She paused gripping her stomach. “Jocasta was also your friend, a brave woman. She tried to save your envoy Lysander.”

The other women were now weeping. Miriam stood her ground. Merope picked up the stool and sat next to Antigone, putting an
arm around her shoulder.

“I swear on my life,” Miriam declared quietly, “by any oath you wish me to take—by Apollo, by land and sky, by the name of
my unknown God—Alexander of Macedon had nothing to do with this sacrilege.”

A wail of protest greeted her words.

“No, no listen!” Miriam held her hands out. “I have come here on my own. Two archers stand outside, but they are forbidden
to enter. Please!” Her voice rose at their cries of protest. “Please listen to what I say. I can produce proof!”

Merope was about to object but Antigone clutched her wrist.

“Let the Israelite speak,” she declared. “There is no lie in her face or voice. Let us at least listen.”

She gestured to a stool. Miriam sat down and fought to hide her own fear. The thin, slender priestess known as Ismene had
brought her hand from beneath the table. She was gripping a knife. Miriam held her gaze.

“An attack on me,” she added, “will achieve nothing. Let me tell you what I know.”

They sat and listened as Miriam began to describe what had happened. The murder of Lysander; the mysterious
death of Memnon; the presence of a spy in the Cadmea; the deaths of the sentries; the appearance of Oedipus; and the events
of the previous night: the deaths of the Macedonian guards, the violation of the shrine, and the murder of Jocasta. When she
had finished, they cried again, but this time more softly, more controlled.

“I speak the truth,” Miriam affirmed.

Ismene threw the knife onto the table. “I accept that you do.”

“So why did Jocasta leave?” Miriam asked.

Antigone replied, telling her what had happened, how this shadowy figure, undoubtedly Oedipus, had been seen around the house
on different evenings, standing just beneath Jocasta’s bedroom window. How the old priestess had kept a vigil, waiting for
him to come; how last light she had accepted the invitation to go out.

“I thought she was safe,” Antigone concluded. “What could an old priestess fear from the god whose shrine she guarded?”

“But weren’t you anxious,” Miriam asked, “concerned when she didn’t return?”

“No. The Macedonians were friendly. Jocasta spoke most kindly about the guards at the shrine. They called her Mother, did
everything to help. The officer, in particular; he was most courteous and kind.” Antigone smiled through her tears. “Jocasta
even called him son. I thought she would go there. She often did. It was her second home, the whole purpose of her life. So
why should someone kill her? Treat her so barbarously?”

“Tell me,” Miriam said, “did any of you know the password to the temple?”

They shook their heads.

“And before you ask,” Ismene spoke up, “we didn’t know
how the Crown could be removed; that was a secret passed from one high priestess to another.”

“Are you sure?” Miriam asked.

“By the land and the sky,” Antigone retorted, “I cannot tell you. Nor can any of my sisters.”

“What will happen now?” Ismene asked.

Miriam explained that Alexander wished to keep the matter as secret as possible. That they still had hopes of trapping the
murderer and that they were not to leave the house.

“You will be well looked after,” Miriam added reassuringly. “The king is firm on this matter. It is to be kept secret until
it is resolved.”

Miriam got up, walked to the door, and stared out. The grove did not look so green and peaceful now, but dark and threatening.
She couldn’t see the archers and she realized that it would take some time for Alexander to muster a guard and send them out
to protect this place. Antigone joined her.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Miriam replied. She scratched her head.

“Show me where Jocasta saw Oedipus.”

Antigone led her out of the house and around to the back. The small wicket gate was unlatched. Miriam went through and stood
at the edge of the wood. She could see no marks in the soil. She looked around. The house was built in a clearing surrounded
on all sides by the olive grove; the trees clustered thick and close. Jocasta, she thought, must have gone willingly but then,
deeper in the woods, the mysterious stranger must have struck.

“A place of death.” Antigone spoke Miriam’s thoughts. “This used to be so different.”

Miriam looked around at her.

“The citizens of Thebes called this the women’s place. Before
the troubles started, few men came here except when the oath was to be taken and the Crown removed. Now it is a place of the
sword, of violent men.” Antigone drew close and grasped Miriam’s hand. “Who was it?” she asked. “Why did he come every night
and stare up at Jocasta’s room?” She pointed to the window, the shutters were still flung back.

“I don’t know,” Miriam replied, “but I suspect that our killer is a cunning and devious man. His presence every night was
comforting. Jocasta would have been pleased. Perhaps she thought she was seeing a vision, some form of reassurance from the
gods. A promise that, though Thebes had fallen, the shrine would remain. Anyway, once the killer gained Jocasta’s confidence,
it was easy to entice her down. However he did not want her, but only the secret she held.”

Miriam was about to continue when she heard a scream, like the shriek of a bird, from the front of the house. She hastened
around, Antigone behind her. The front door was open. Ismene had apparently walked out across the yard to the edge of the
olive grove. Now she came back, her hands covered in blood.

“They are dead!” she screamed. “The guards you brought! They are both dead!”

Miriam rushed by her. Forgetting any sense of danger, she crossed the yard to the edge of the clearing. The Cretan archers
lay a few paces apart, blood seeping out from the terrible wounds in their skulls.

M
IRIAM HEARD A
crackling amidst the trees. Someone was lurking, staring out from the tangled greenery. She caught a movement, a figure stepping
out from behind one of the thick, gnarled trees. She turned and ran, pushing the priestesses ahead of her through the door
of the house and slamming it behind her. Miriam brought down the bar, screaming at the others to shut the windows. No sooner
was this done than something thudded against the shutters, and wisps of smoke curled into the house. Miriam had been in enough
sieges to know what was happening. Their assailant was in the trees. He had lit a fire, taken the Cretan’s weapons, and was
now loosening fire arrows at the house. She murmured a prayer of thanks that the building was of stone, its roof of red tiles.
But what would happen if there was more than one attacker? If they tried to force the door? Was this the horrid-shaped Oedipus
who had already caused such bloody chaos? Or was it a roaming party of Theban soldiers? The priestesses were frantic with
anxiety. Miriam shouted at them to keep silent, and she told Antigone to wash the blood from Ismene’s
hands. What was happening was a result of foolishness and naïveté. Alexander had ravaged the city of Thebes but that damned
grove, with its tortuous paths, had not been guarded. From the top of the stairs Antigone screamed. Another fire arrow had
hit a shutter on the upper floors. Others followed. Smoke curled in, thick gray wisps as the dry wood caught fire. Miriam
noticed water jars in the kitchen. Some were too heavy to move but she scooped water into jugs and cups; the others did likewise
thereby drenching the shutters from within. Ismene was beside herself with fear, sitting at the foot of the stairs, hands
waving, feet stamping, shrieking like a child. Antigone ran to her, slapping her hard on both cheeks before hugging her close
and crooning sweet sounds into her ear like a mother would her child.

“Do you have any weapons?” Miriam asked. “A sword, a spear?” She coughed as the smoke caught in her nostrils and throat.

“Nothing but kitchen knives,” Antigone replied.

Miriam noticed the peephole in the front door, a slat of wood that could be pulled aside. She opened this carefully and peered
out. The forest edge looked deserted. She was about to sigh in relief until she noticed wisps of smoke along the far wall.
She stared in horror as a figure, terrible to behold, stood up. He was dressed in wild skins, a mask over his face. She could
see that his hands and wrists were stained in blood but that he was no ghost or specter. With his great horn bow he loosed
another fire arrow. What did he hope to achieve? Miriam hastily closed the shutter as the arrow hit the door. She ordered
the priestesses to drench this with water and she reopened the shutter. Miriam could see nothing untoward. Then the figure
came up again, arrow notched, but this time he paused, looking behind him as if he had heard some sound. The bow was hastily
dropped. Miriam closed the shutter and went to sit with the rest as
they huddled at the bottom of the stairs. She heard shouts, the clink of armor. She grasped a knife from the kitchen table
and opened the shutter. Macedonians had arrived: guardsmen in their plumed helmets, shields and spears in their hands, but
the officer directing them looked confused. He could see that the house had been under attack and he was vainly searching
for the assailant. Miriam opened the door.

“Over here!” she called.

The officer hurried forward, wiping his sweat-soaked brow on the back of his wrist. He recognized Miriam.

“What is the matter, mistress? We’ve seen the corpses of two Cretans. They were killed in the same way as the sentries around
the camp, skulls staved in, brains and blood spilling out.”

“We were attacked,” Miriam replied, “by whomever it was that killed the Cretans.” She pointed at the charred shutters, the
still-smoldering doors. “Though no real harm has been done,” she forced a smile, “my legs still tremble and my stomach is
pitching.”

The officer turned around shouting orders.

“Weren’t there soldiers in the grove?” Miriam asked.

The guards officer shook his head.

“There’s a rumor,” he declared, “that something happened at the shrine. Perdiccas ordered the guards and archers stationed
there back to camp to take an oath.”

Miriam pulled a face. Of course, that was what Alexander had decided earlier. In fact, she had recommended it. The assailant
must have discovered this and exploited the gap between the soldiers leaving and fresh ones arriving. Yet how had he killed
those archers? Such men were fierce fighters? They wouldn’t have given their lives easily.

“I want a guard around this house!” Miriam declared. “No one is to approach the priestesses unless they carry the personal
seal of Alexander.”

The officer agreed.

“You are the Israelite, aren’t you? Perdiccas told us to look out for you.”

He spoke with that lazy, easy charm, a characteristic of Alexander’s officers. Once they recognized her, they would do what
she asked and, in teasing good humor, offer no objection. Miriam stared back through the open doorway. The priestesses had
now regained their composure. Antigone, despite being the youngest, calmed them down, served them cups of watered wine. Antigone
was cool, self-assured. During the attack she had acted as bravely as any soldier.

What, Miriam wondered, if there was more than one Oedipus, a group of ardent Thebans dedicated to Alexander’s discomfiture?
Miriam crossed her arms and walked away, leaving the officer looking nonplussed. Such an explanation, she reasoned, would
resolve a number of mysteries. How Oedipus could have been seen inside and outside the Cadmea. And what if this group was
both male and female? A lonely soldier would not regard some pretty girl as a threat though a woman like Antigone could wield
a club as deadly as any man. Had Antigone encouraged Jocasta to go out? Had someone like Antigone, or indeed her sisters in
the order, learned both the password and the secret way of lifting the Iron Crown? Such thoughts ran wild in her mind. One
Oedipus? Two, or even a dozen?

“Mistress.”

She turned around. The officer was looking at her strangely.

“I’ll leave a guard here, as you say. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” Miriam apologized and walked over to him. “Tell your men not to stay alone or to stand guard by themselves.
Treat anyone who approaches you—man, woman, or child—as suspicious, unless as I said, they carry the King’s personal seal.”

The officer nodded and shrugged. “I would agree with that.”

Antigone came out of the house, a blanket wrapped around her, though her feet were still bare. Her eyes were red-rimmed but
otherwise she looked serene enough. Miriam recalled her suspicions. Addressing Miriam, she said, “We have allowed no one near
this house.” Turning to the officer, she continued, “And we will not unless they are escorted by you; that’s how it all began.”

“What do you mean?” Miriam asked.

“When the city was stormed,” Antigone replied, “the king sent an officer with the seal of Macedon to assure Jocasta and the
rest that we and the shrine would be safe.”

Miriam half heard her; Alexander had done that throughout the city, dispatching envoys to the different temples and shrines
to afford them protection. The priestess turned, about to go back to the house.

“Did you leave the shrine during the siege?” Miriam asked.

Antigone whirled round. Miriam saw the flush on her face.

“We have nothing to do with war,” she declared, drawing herself up. “The only time was when the elders of the council led
by Pelliades came to the shrine to take the oath that they would fight to the death. And, of course, to ask Jocasta to act
as the intermediary to swear that Lysander would be returned unharmed.”

“An oath they broke,” Miriam declared. “Why did they come to see Jocasta?” she continued. “Why not to some other shrine or
temple?”

Antigone licked her lips, opened her mouth to reply, but then glanced away. “It was my idea,” she answered.

“What?” Miriam drew closer. She took the woman by the elbow and led her into the house.

“I am not what I appear to be.” Antigone closed the
door. She peered around Miriam to ensure that she was out of earshot of the rest.

“You are a priestess,” Miriam declared, “a keeper of the shrine.”

“I am also kinswoman to Pelliades, leader of the Theban council.” She glimpsed the surprise in Miriam’s eyes.

“Pelliades came here,” she declared in a rush. “He was full of what he called great news. Alexander’s army had been massacred
in the Thessaly mountains. The Macedonian king was dead, the League of Corinth dissolved. Thebes would be free again.”

“And he came here to ask Jocasta to intervene?”

“No, no. He came here to see me,” Antigone retorted. She rubbed her cheek. “He always did. I’m his niece. He had no children
himself and often brought gifts for myself and the other sisters. I’ll never forget that morning; Pelliades was almost dancing
with joy.”

“He and who else?” Miriam asked.

“Telemachus, his confidant, his aide. They were rejoicing. They’d poured oil on their heads and drunk quite heavily. All Thebes,
they said, would soon know the news.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Miriam interrupted.

“You never asked,” Antigone replied in mock innocence. “But then again, Miriam Bartimaeus, when Alexander’s soldiers are marauding
through the city and Pelliades is at the head of their list of wanted men, it is not the time to declare kinship!”

“Did Pelliades tell you” Miriam asked, “how he had learned such news?”

“He was going to but Telemachus restrained him, urging him to caution. He said it wasn’t right that I should know but Uncle
was insistent. He said they had a spy in the Cadmea. Someone who had Thebes’ interest at heart. Telemachus
laughed at that. More like Persian gold, he quipped. Pelliades, however, said this man was a friend of Demosthenes and that
he had confirmed the news, a closely held secret in the citadel, that the Macedonians had suffered a terrible setback in Thessaly.”

“Did he give any indication, please,” Miriam grasped her hand, “as to who this person was?”

“He said he was an officer.”

“Did Jocasta know all this?”

“Oh yes, she always insisted that she be present when Uncle was visiting.” Antigone smiled sadly. “We are all consecrated
virgins and Jocasta took her duties very seriously. Moreover, there was a secret agreement between Jocasta and the council
that if Thebes ever fell Jocasta was to take the Crown and hide it.”

“Then why didn’t she?”

“Jocasta was furious with Pelliades. He had broken his oath to her and killed Lysander. She cursed him, told him never to
visit this house again. I think Pelliades would have taken the Crown himself but the council would never have accepted such
blasphemy.”

“And this spy?” Miriam prompted her. “And Lysander?”

“Well, this was before Pelliades broke his oath. He said he wanted to avoid all bloodshed, that he would be happy if the Macedonian
garrison left, walked out of Thebes, and never came back. I remember asking him why their spy didn’t just open the gates.
Telemachus laughed. He reminded me that there was one main gate and a small postern door; their spy had told them that both
were closely guarded.”

“Of course,” Miriam interrupted, “and if the citadel was attacked, the Macedonians would have sold their lives dearly.”

“Naturally.”

“But if Pelliades and Telemachus wanted the Macedonian garrison to leave, why didn’t they negotiate with Lysander instead
of killing him?”

“Jocasta never understood that,” Antigone replied. “You see, when Pelliades was talking about negotiations and avoiding bloodshed,
Jocasta offered her mediation. She was a priestess; she would guarantee Lysander’s safety. Pelliades seized on that, claiming
it would be very useful.”

“But what changed his mind from honorable negotiations to foul murder, displaying Lysander’s corpse on a cross?”

“Jocasta said,” Antigone went and sat at the foot of the stairs, “she said it all occurred so quickly. As you know, the Thebans
had built a palisade around the Cadmea.”

“Until then,” Miriam asked, “the Macedonians had been allowed to wander through the city?”

“Oh yes, until everything became tense and rumors started to spread. You see, at first, they were just rumors. Alexander dying,
his army being defeated, a revolt in the Macedonian capital at Pella. When these rumors were confirmed as fact,” Antigone
sighed, “the palisade was built, the citadel put under a virtual state of siege.”

“Then negotiations were opened?”

“Yes, and you know what happened. Captain Memnon sent out Lysander.” Antigone waved her hand. “You asked me why they killed
Lysander. Afterward Pelliades came here; he tried to make his peace with Jocasta.” She smiled wryly. “He wasn’t even allowed
in the yard. So I had to go out to meet him at the gate. Of course, I was furious as well. I asked him why he had violated
Jocasta’s oath, his promise to her and to me. Pelliades was more sober-minded now. He said that when Lysander came out, one
of the Thebans councillors had said something that, if Lysander took it back
to the citadel, might reveal the identity of their spy. Indeed, Lysander seemed to recognize this; he became alarmed and stepped
back. The councillor, realizing his mistake, drew his dagger and, before Pelliades could stop him, plunged it into Lysander’s
throat. Pelliades claimed that he had no choice but to display the corpse, turn what had happened to their advantage, show
the garrison that there was really no hope whatsoever.”